Death.

If days should pass without a written word         To tell me of thy welfare, and if days         Should lengthen out to weeks, until the maze     Of questioning fears confused me, and I heard.         Life-sounds as echoes; and one came and said         After these weeks of waiting: "He is dead!"     Though the quick sword had found the vital part,         And the life-blood must mingle with the tears,         I think that, as the dying soldier hears     The cries of victory, and feels his heart         Surge with his country's triumph-hour, I could         Hope bravely on, and feel that God was good.     I could take up my thread of life again         And weave my pattern though the colors were         Faded forever. Though I might not dare     Dream often of thee, I should know that when         Death came to thee upon thy lips my name         Lingered, and lingers ever without blame.     Aye, lingers ever. Though we may not know         Much that our spirits crave, yet is it given         To us to feel that in the waiting Heaven     Great souls are greater, and if God bestow         A mighty love He will not let it die         Through the vast ages of eternity.     But if some day the bitter knowledge swept         Down on my life, - bearing my treasured freight         To founder on the shoals of scorn, - what Fate     Smiling with awful irony had kept         Till life grew sweeter, - that my god was clay,         That 'neath thy strength a lurking weakness lay;     That thou, whom I had deemed a man of men         Faulty, as great men are, but with no taint         Of baseness, - with those faults that shew the saint     Of after days, perhaps, - wert even then         When first I loved thee but a spreading tree         Whose leaves shewed not its roots' deformity;     I should not weep, for there are wounds that lie         Too deep for tears, - and Death is but a friend         Who loves too dearly, and the parting end     Of Love's joy-day a paltry pain, a cry         To God, then peace, - beside the torturing grief         When honor dies, and trust, and soul's belief.     Travellers have told that in the Java isles         The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out         Into the air; there needs no hand about     Its branches for the poison's deadly wiles         To work a strong man's hurt, for there is death         Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.     So would I breathe thy poison in my soul,         Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true         Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew.     Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole         From his far sister, I should bear thy blight         Upon me as I passed into the night.     Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much         To me, Dear Heart? Oh! I am full of tears         To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears.     Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch,         For Time is long, and though I may not will         To question Fate, I am a woman still.